Amanda offers a thought-provoking post on the nature, and perhaps the futility, of art criticism. She’s focusing primarily on music, with a nod towards visual arts and dance–the three most ineffable art forms, I’d wager. And obviously her point is a good one, as evidenced by the differences of opinion between all the intelligent, well-rounded art/lit-crit thinkers in the blogroll over there: What makes art “good” is as hard to find as Flannery O’Connor’s proverbial good man. But in the end I can’t accept that criticism is totally futile (not that I think that this is what Amanda is saying, necessarily, but a more strenuous version of her argument is often lobbed at critics by artists and creators claiming “you’ll never understand,” so it’s worth offering some kind of defense). I know in my heart that there is a difference–a real, qualitative difference–between this song and that, this comic and that, this film and that, this painting and that, this book and that, etc. I know that, taste and background and education and experience aside, there are cases in which one can say that this art is better than that art. Why? Passion, craft, innovation, originality, creatifity, ingenuity, skill, impact, iconoclasm, iconicity, enjoyability, intelligence, entertainment value, God knows what else; it varies, from case to case and even from time to time. I think it’s foolish, and probably inimical to art itself, to claim to have all the answers when it comes to Art; here’s the latest installment of an interminable object lesson on this point, courtesy of a self-deluded individual who’s Got It All Figured Out. But ultimately, we try, we struggle, to figure out as much of it as we can, and occasionally we offer our interpretations, our opinions, our critiques, like little unrequited love-letters to the Art that sustains us, infuriates us, gives our lives meaning. That’s how I see it. That’s how I’ve got to see it.
